Will I ever grow up? Will I ever see a time when, on getting sick, I won’t long for my mother to tuck the extra pillow under my head, to bring me a cup full of orange juice and a flexi-straw, to soothe me out of a coughing fit by her loving embrace rocking me to stillness? Will I ever take cold medicine without imagining the pills in her open palm or lifted in her gentle fingers? Will I ever see a humidifier and not imagine the rickety old one of my youth — a short brown pan with a cone-head fan — that she would carefully perch atop my little desk chair, drawn up beside my bed? Will I ever not desire that small plate with its slice of toast somehow perfectly buttered?
I hope not.
Love you, Mom.
(And can I get some more orange juice, please?)